


Don't Be Angry

by scriggly



Category: British Actor RPF, Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 01:36:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3190925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scriggly/pseuds/scriggly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin is angry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Be Angry

**Author's Note:**

> Hastily scribbled together when inspiration struck to thank fyeahfreebatch, my single online purveyor of all things freebatch, for their delicious Tumblr blog. (I don't know how to make this link -- terribly sorry!)
> 
> WARNING: This is real-person fiction (RPF) depicting real-person slash (RPS). If you don't know what that means, please Google it before reading.
> 
> Unbetaed. Only barely edited.

When Martin pulls Ben into his dressing room and locks the door, Ben's mouth goes dry. _Finally._

But Martin turns him around roughly and pushes him against the wall. Martin's hard length is hot against the back of Ben's thigh in spite of their clothes and Ben's knees go weak. But something's... off. Martin’s breathing heavily against the nape of Ben’s neck. Angrily. "Martin?"

Martin snarls, his hands tightening around Ben’s wrists against the wall. “Happy. You were happy,” Martin grits out, voice gruff with the lust that Ben could fucking smell throughout the scene they’ve just shot, Martin’s eyes gleaming dangerously and playing hell with Ben’s concentration.

But the anger – Ben doesn’t understand that. “What are you talking about?”

Martin snarls again, pressing closer. “The bloody party. I understand the posing and the red carpet cuddling,” Martin whispers hotly into Ben’s ear, and Ben is so hard he doesn’t think he can stand any longer, “but a fucking photobomb? You weren’t pretending. You were fucking happy.” The pain in Martin’s voice pierces the dizzy fog around Ben’s brain, but before he can reply Martin takes an abrupt step backwards, the sudden loss of his warmth leaving Ben bereft.

Ben turns around, disbelief roiling with warmth in his guts. Martin’s… jealous? He wants to ask Martin if he really means it, he wants to pepper kisses on Martin. The pain in Martin’s blue eyes is shockingly real, and giddy joy rushes through Ben. Martin’s gaze falls on Ben’s mouth and darkens. Ben almost comes right then and there. He wants Martin to kiss him like the world’s about to end, like he always kisses Ben, hurried and desperate and hot. He forces himself to focus. “You’re… I can’t believe you actually… Look, I’ve missed you so much and I… You… Oh, will you please just-”

He’s cut off by a fierce kiss as Martin pushes him back against the wall. Martin snakes his thigh against Ben’s crotch and Ben’s legs fall obscenely open. Martin kisses him feverishly, opening Ben’s trousers. “You,” Martin gasps in between kisses, his hand stroking Ben frantically, “you fucking cock,” sucks on Ben’s tongue, and then, his thumb brushing Ben’s slit, “I love you.”

Ben comes, Martin’s hand safely around him, Martin’s mouth claiming his.

***

Drunk -- Martin is drunk on this gorgeous, mumbling puppy of a boy who has melted bonelessly against the wall. Ben’s beautiful eyes are closed and he’s gasping, still riding out his orgasm. His  head has fallen back against the wall and he’s still effectively straddling Martin’s thigh. Martin smiles, his gaze dropping to the erect cock still jerking and spurting in Martin’s sticky hand.

Ben’s fingers are fisted in Martin’s shirt. Ben’s engagement ring glints in the light from the window, and Martin comes crashing down from the haze of lust into the snarl of jealousy and affection and anger Ben always, _always_ evokes in him.

Ben clears his throat.

“Shut up,” Martin says quietly, fishing out some tissues from his pocket with this free hand, his other hand still stroking his boy's cock, no longer shooting but still thick and hot and twitching a few last times. He doesn’t want to hear why Ben seemed so genuinely happy at the bloody awards. Of course he wants him to be happy, or at least he will genuinely want it eventually, once he gets used to the idea and the fucking ring Ben was so quick to slide back on after they finished the last scene. Martin doesn’t want to know how Ben turned from following Martin around in the Hobbit premiere last year and hovering around Martin while Martin spoke to Ben’s dad… to cuddling and dancing and posing with _her,_ and bringing her here _._

Martin grits his teeth in anger for letting himself sink to this. Well, he doesn’t know that Ben brought her here. The devastating jealousy still burns, and Martin feels unreasonably betrayed by Ben’s silence, heavy and helpless, as Martin tucks him into his trousers, wondering (refusing to admit) who else got to do this, touch him. Martin’s still hard, and he’s still angry – at himself, most of all. This is pathetic. He’s the one who has always brushed off Ben’s hesitant, almost-proclamations of love before Ben could utter any of them, and now he’s gone and made his own foolish proclamation and-

His knees nearly give out at the hesitant brush against the front of his trousers. “Martin. Don’t be angry. I didn’t know. How could I know?”

Bile rises bitterly again in his throat at Ben’s earnest voice. _How could Ben not know, damn it?_ Ben has probably sensed it, and Martin gives in to the kiss as Ben fiddles with his zipper with those too-long fingers. What can he say? He can’t even rail at Ben for… for moving on (there was never even anything to move on _from_ ), and he can’t yell anyway in this tiny room with its thin walls and the curious ears nearby, maybe pressed against this very door.

Ben curls his fingers around Martin’s cock and maneuvers them so Martin’s against the wall, but all Martin can feel is the fucking engagement ring on Ben’s finger and he suddenly feels fucking ridiculous standing here fully dressed with his leaking cock out and Ben sucking on his tongue and everyone outside, including _her,_ because maybe Ben didn’t bring her here but he obviously let her think she was welcome and bloody fucking hell, what the bleeding fuck is wrong with him, what was Ben supposed to do – call security?

If Martin doesn’t end this insanity right now, the anger will choke him (Ben is rubbish at hand jobs anyway, he loses himself in kisses and can’t focus) and he’s about to push Ben away when Ben stops kissing him and sinks to his knees.

Martin’s anger dies at the sight. Ben holds his gaze for an electrifying instant before lowering his head. Martin almost comes as his cock slides between those lush lips and into the heat of Ben’s pretty mouth. He forces his eyes to stay open and looks his fill at this fucking Oscar-nominated,  golden boy everyone wants a piece of, _his_ boy with his cheekbones and his impeccable manners and boyish charm, lost around Martin’s cock, on his knees. Ben is lapping at Martin’s slit and sucking on his cock like he’s dying of thirst, his ridiculous dyed curls tumbling and rolling and catching the light, that dark look that suits Ben so well half the stupid world thinks it’s real. Martin can’t blame them -- the dark-haired Ben took Martin’s breath away the first time he laid eyes on him, but this fake look cannot touch what Ben really looks like with his real golden curls and that freckled nose and that adorable lisp that makes Martin’s heart stutter every time he hears it.

Martin can’t stop looking at him, kneeling, beautiful and precious and eager to please – something in Martin’s chest twists. His adoring non-lover (Martin refused to allow him even this word), brainlessly loyal, enough to refuse to let an interview pass without reminding the world of how much he adores Martin and how brilliant and funny and talented Martin is, a not-so-secret love letter to Martin wherever he might be in the world at that point, and fuck, _fuck –_ Ben tilts his head and takes Martin in deeper, and he’s so young, too trusting and optimistic and self-confident to realise how much Martin needs those words from him every single day.

How is Martin supposed to console himself now? He used to tell himself the swooning fans can have their fictional detective and their equally fictional suave, posh star -- Martin has the real thing, the golden-copper-auburn haired nymph-boy with the unearthly, colourless eyes and the sun-kissed skin and those clever long fingers and that mouth that can’t string three words together in an interview but needs no words against Martin’s mouth, on every inch of Martin’s skin that he’s let Ben touch.

Ben is utterly lost now, sucking Martin and cradling him and making little moans around Martin, and he can’t stop swallowing around Martin’s cock – hot, Ben’s tongue is hot and clever and the sight drives Martin closer to the edge and breaks Martin’s heart – this lovely, otherworldly creature should always be free (and _his_ ). He wasn’t made for bloody arranged dates and fucking PR shite meant to seduce the award-winning lotus-eating wankers who could make or break Ben’s career. He wasn’t meant to be on his knees sucking Martin off with his entire being screaming heartbreak and conflict and a too-late realisation. He should be free, happy and butterfly-free, damn it.

Martin knows how the story will unfold. He can see Ben’s future, a few sprinklings of glittering success amidst awards and loneliness and recognition and anger and money and emptiness, too much of all of that, more than his fair share, and a little less peace every day.

He’s not going to do this to Ben now, not when the whole world will do it anyway. He tangles his fingers softly in Ben’s hair and steadies his breath. “I’m not angry.”

Ben’s eyes fly open and the shocked-happy-grateful flash there clutches at Martin’s heart. Ben really thinks all there is to it was Martin’s jealousy.

Silly boy. Silly, beautiful boy.

Martin holds his gaze, and thrusts into his mouth gently. “I’m not angry. And now I want to come in your mouth.”

Ben’s eyes flutter shut as he moans around Martin’s cock. He clutches Martin’s hip tighter and pulls him closer, encouraging him to fuck his mouth, and Martin plunges over the edge, thick, scorching pleasure rushing through him, and he’s only barely aware of Ben still sucking him as he spills into Ben’s mouth.

When the dizziness clears, he finds Ben still on his knees, still lapping and nuzzling at his softened cock, the sensitive skin turning the pleasure into tortured ecstasy. Martin watches his fingers tangling and untangling Ben’s curls.

Ben purrs. Then stops himself and looks up hesitantly, and Martin could pluck out his heart and hand it to him right now. “Are you still angry?”

“No,” Martin mutters, dazed at the sight of Ben’s debauched, red lips and graceful nose nuzzling Martin’s softening cock, his eyes trained on Martin and Martin alone, as if no one’s waiting or looking for them outside.

Let her compete with this. Ben’s here, still Martin’s ridiculously beautiful boy who couldn’t bear to upset Martin that he won’t even get up until Martin reassures him himself. Something warm unfurls in Martin’s chest.

“Don’t be angry.”

“I’m really not, and you really have to get up before they come looking for us.”

A blindingly bright smile greets him as Ben gets up and pulls Martin into a happy, wet kiss. “I love you,” Ben says into Martin’s mouth.

“I know,” Martin mutters. People will definitely be looking for them now. One more stolen moment in their world, Martin thinks, desperately committing to memory the sight and sounds and smell of this precious boy, defence against the hot jealousy that will tear at him in a few minutes. He thinks of their next scene, and he’s deeply grateful no one else got this role. Ben sighs into his mouth and Martin smiles – he already knows what all those websites will post tomorrow. Statements about Ben always being happiest on set. Images of Ben smiling next to Martin or blatantly following Martin with his eyes, screaming their secret to the world, the idiot… Or maybe this is what Ben is deliberately telling the world every time.

Ben licks into his mouth and deepens the kiss. Oh, this boy, this precious, lovely boy is _his._ He will never be anyone else’s. He’s Martin’s, forever and ever.

“Ma… Martin, oh, I-”

“Shut up,” Martin whispers against those lush lips. One more stolen moment in their world. Until the next stolen moment. Which... "Shut up," Martin repeats, tugging his boy flush against him, clutching his boy's buttocks in both hands. "You have to learn to shut up, because next time, I... I'm going to come _here,_ " he whispers, fingers digging possessive and feverish into Ben's plush cheeks.

Ben gasps, disbelieving and giddy, melting into Martin. "H... Here?"

"Inside you."

Yes. Let the rest of the world wait outside, Martin decides, kissing Ben senseless, fingers gliding up to curl around Ben’s slender waist then down to spread proprietary and hungry on his arse, and continues shutting Ben up.


End file.
